


True Blood

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s trying to be wise this time, trying to get rid of what he’s supposed to, to hang onto what he’s taken responsibility for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for salt_burn_porn for blackrabbit42's prompt "everything must go."

Sam’s coughing up blood. These days, it’s like flossing, part of his routine. Speaking of. He roots through the toiletries bag to find the mouthwash and gargles conscientiously. Maybe the whole Keats act is more like being a secret smoker. He wouldn’t want to go back into the room with blood breath.

It’s ironic, really, that he’s trying to hide this from Dean. Not that he’s doing so well at the hiding. Dean sure as hell knows there’s something wrong with him. Sam’s OK with that much. Just so long as Dean doesn’t see this, catch him at this. 

Though it’s not like he’s _drinking_ blood this time. It ought to be good that he’s reversing that, getting it out at last. He can still taste the iron taint under minty fresh Listerine, but maybe if he can get rid of it, bring it all up, maybe then he can do these trials and not fuck them up. So far he’s never been strong enough except when he’s been wrong. Now he’s dizzy and maybe there’s nothing in his own blood that can do this and if Dean knew he wouldn’t trust him. But the old blood has got to go. Sam gets that. He just doesn't want Dean to see.

 

Dean is sprawled on the bed nearest the door, half on top of a scattering of paper and crumbs. Sam lies beside him. There’s a whole other bed but the unrumpled expanse of comforter isn’t inviting. Here he can feel the edge of Dean’s warmth and hear his breathing and catch a faint whiff of wood polish and old leather from the dead guy robe. Dean smells of home. It’s a calming proximity. The clammy jitteriness fades. Sam’s heart beats tentatively steady, like maybe it can handle it, keep going, keep him and Dean alive.

“Sleep in your own bed,” says Dean. 

“This one’s better,” says Sam.

Dean makes to shove him off the bed but it’s a feint, a cover to for palming over Sam’s forehead like he’s six again, to check if he’s running a fever. Sam shakes him off and Dean’s hand slides down, two fingers settling with studied casualness over Sam’s pulse.

This is the moment when Sam should pull away, flounce to the other bed, the cue for “I’m fine.” But Sam just closes his eyes and feels his pulse thrum under Dean’s fingers, the OK part of his blood, the part that warms at Dean’s touch. It’s doing what it’s supposed to do, moving faster when his heart beats harder, but not like the drumbeat of demon blood in his ears. That’s all going to go, they’re done with that. This is want and it’s what’s going to pull Sam through this, pull Dean through. Sam’s blood is rushing now but it’s human under Dean’s touch. It just needs to stay human. Sam grabs Dean’s wrist and tongues his pulse but it’s too faint, not enough, and Sam rolls over on top of Dean and puts his lips to his neck. 

“Thought you were feeling delicate,” says Dean, mocking and anxious.

Sam was. But Dean is a breathing, pliant warmth under him, bleeding into him, and Dean’s pulse is beating under Sam’s tongue and Dean is responding, Dean is alive and each beat of his heart is Dean wanting to stay that way and that’s all Sam needs. That’s what’s flowing south and hardening Sam’s dick, that’s what’s hammering in Sam’s chest. He catches Dean’s wrist again, holding it to the bed and Dean chuckles because Dean’s a dick and Sam manhandling him is oh-so-hilarious. But that isn’t it. The point is Sam’s got another pulse now, leaping under his fingers. Dean is arching his neck, maybe it’s a suggestion, get moving, but Sam’s mouth is staying right where it is, where the life runs, where he can count it. 

He nudges Dean’s legs apart and the dead guy robe has fallen open and Dean’s heart is beating under Sam’s chest, Dean’s dick is hot and full through the thin cloth of Sam’s boxers, Dean wanting. Sam growls and grabs at Dean’s other wrist, tightens his fingers over it, and now Sam has it all, four compass points of living blood. Dean is breathing quicker, deeper, his face flushed pink, his chest warming under Sam’s, hard nubs of his nipples tickling at Sam’s skin. He’s writhing under Sam, but not to try to throw him off. Dean needs something here, too, to let Sam hold him down, maybe, to let Sam pin him to life. Sam rests his whole weight, rocking down, letting Dean feel him, while Dean bucks up and his pulses leap. The blood sings in Sam’s ears and he thrusts against Dean. Dean’s making a punched out noise at each thrust, and the sound he makes when he comes is more an _oof_ than a moan. Sam bites down on the cresting hammer of Dean’s pulse in a clench of fondness and follows Dean over the edge. 

“Not so fucking delicate, huh?” says Sam in a bit. He feels good, right now.

“You’re still a fragile princess,” says Dean. There’s hope in his voice, though, Sam can feel it run through his veins. Like Dean’s hanging on, like he trusts Sam to hang on.

Kevin sold his cello, and he hasn’t seen his mom in four months. Cas is preparing to swing heaven’s doors shut and lock himself out. Lisa and Ben, Benny and Amelia, a house in Kermit, Texas, left by the wayside. They’re all so used to it, letting things go. Letting everything go. But Sam’s trying to be wise this time, trying to get rid of what he’s supposed to, to hang onto what he’s taken responsibility for. He’s trying. He’ll hack up his lungs, give up the last dregs of power, and he’ll hold onto this, onto Dean, flesh and blood.


End file.
